


Bloom

by caricari



Series: Summer Omens [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dream Sex, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn with Feelings, Psychic Bond, Sharing a Dream, Some sort of telepathic connection, Wet Dream, listen I don't know i'm making shit up here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari
Summary: It is just a dream, Aziraphale tells himself, as the demon presses him down, into the sheets. He is allowed this in a dream. He sleeps so rarely, after all, and it’s not as if anyone will ever know…
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962562
Comments: 16
Kudos: 236





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt seven from asparkofgoodness's [Summer Omens prompts challenge](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/post/623395804680470528/here-we-go-friends-now-ive-never-been-the). All works are set in the same timeline, written/drawn in under an hour, and less than 5k. Beta read by [ AJ ](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/).

_1989, London_

.

In dreams, he comes alive under Crowley’s fingertips. The tight control he ties around himself, during the day, becomes unravelled, fraying at the edges, leaving him liquid and free and burning with desire.

It is just a dream, Aziraphale tells himself, as the demon presses him down, into the sheets. He is allowed this in a dream. He sleeps so rarely, after all, and it’s not as if anyone will ever know…

So, he lets it happen. Once or twice a year, Aziraphale curls himself down in brushed cotton sheets and lets his mind go deliciously blank. And Crowley comes for him, every time. Sometimes, their meetings are innocuous, innocent. But tonight, Crowley presses him down, into the bed with hungry eyes. He licks a stripe along Aziraphale's neck and tweaks agile fingertips over a nipple. He sucks the salt from the skin of his shoulders and exhales as he pushes their bodies together, grinding hard cock into soft belly. He breathes out 'angel' and laughs at the groan that trips from Aziraphale's lips, in reply.

Crowley is always gentle, in his dreams. Always safe. On the rare occasions that Aziraphale has allowed himself to fantasise, while awake, their sex is bone-shakingly intense and fraught with fear. It is a series of snapshot moments - all dark and indistinct - the details blurred by his inability to address their want directly. But, asleep, things are different.

Asleep, they are sweet, and silly, and comfortable. They are playful, and tender, and unabashed; just themselves. The same angel and demon who spend hours laughing in the back room of the bookshop, working their way through several bottles of their favourite red. The same angel and demon who dine out, around the city. Who share comfortable silences on long drives. Who know one another, inside out.

In his dreams, they feel natural together. Crowley grins as Aziraphale arches up into him, bracing a leg, holding them apart, prolonging the tease.

“Hey. You’re not allowed to be a bastard, in my dreams,” he grumbles, in that voice that Aziraphale knows so well.

And the angel laughs, because that is exactly what the real Crowley would say. This is exactly how the demon would run fingers down his hips - how he would groan, how he would lift Aziraphale's feet and place them against his shoulders, how he would grind himself against the underside of his thighs. This is Crowley. Aziraphale knows the demon well enough to conjure him up in exquisite detail.

“You’re going to kill me, angel,” the dream Crowley murmurs, sliding those long legs wider, pushing harder against him. “Going to fucking end me…”

And Aziraphale can feel his pleasure as if it were his own - (because it is only a dream, only a fantasy, so why shouldn’t he?)

It is just a dream, Aziraphale thinks, as his head drops back against the pillows and his legs fall apart, to allow Crowley to fold over him. Just a dream, he reminds himself, as the demon leans in to lick at his nipples, to press wet, sucking kisses against the stretch marks on his sides. They are safe here, he thinks, as the demon’s mouth slides down, into the crease of his leg - as Crowley finds him in the nest of rough curls and takes him into his hot mouth, sucking him the last few heartbeats to hard.

It is just a dream. So, of course Crowley can take him right down, against the arch of his throat. Or, maybe, the demon can do that in real life, the angel thinks. Perhaps, he’s mentioned it, before, and that's why Aziraphale is imagining it, now - because it’s not his favourite move. (It is incredible. It is sublime. But it is not his favourite). His favourite is when Crowley's long fingers slide around the base of him, squeezing gently in the same rhythm as his tongue.

That happens next, causing Aziraphale to whimper out his best friend’s name.

“Oh, Crowley… Crowley, darling...”

He loves that he can say that, in his dreams.

The seconds stretch out, around them. It is fantasy. So, time is not beholden to the same restrictions. Aziraphale is never any closer or further from climax, but the need inside him is somehow always growing. And when the demon’s hands slide back, behind his balls, he finds himself consumed by it. Needing more.

“Please?”

"What would you like?"

"You. Inside me."

“Yeah?”

The dream Crowley looks up with a question in his eyes. It's something he does, in real life. A need to check in. A snake demon, seeking reassurance.

“I’ve never done it, this way around,” Aziraphale blurts out - because it is a dream and it doesn’t matter if he is honest and vulnerable, here. “I’ve done… you know, other things, with humans.” He watches Crowley, feeling the demon’s thumb stroke against the inside of his thigh. “I’ve never had anyone inside me, before. I’ve been saving this for you, for us...” He gives a self-effacing little laugh. “I never wanted it this way, unless it was you. Is that silly?”

“No.” The answer is firm, sure. “You can want things.”

“Because it’s a dream?”

“Yeah.” His friend leans in, a strange twist to his smile. Something almost sad. “Because it’s a dream.” He lays kisses against Aziraphale's jaw. Captures his mouth. The pressure is almost bruising. “You can have anything you want from me, angel,” Crowley murmurs. “I’ll get you whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you the fucking world. All the cake you can eat. Those,“ he kisses again, harder, “stupid, awful oysters. That champagne you like that tastes like old biscuits-,”

“It’s meant to-,”

“I know!”

His friend silences him with another kiss, pushing him further up the bed, knees slipping against the sheets.

“Jesus, fuck…”

He’s got a hand between his legs. And it’s indistinct, it’s a dream, but it feels like all the times Aziraphale has touched himself. And he is shivering, his head back, his mouth open, and his eyes closed. And he can smell Crowley. Or rather, he can’t possibly smell Crowley - but he can _imagine_ smelling Crowley, and that works out rather the same, because it’s a dream. Just a dream. The best dream.

He’s got his best friend, sliding slick fingers into him, easing them back out again. He's got Crowley, whining against him. And something is burning to life inside of Aziraphale, a bloom of something huge and tight, growing as his body opens. And his head is spinning because it’s more detail than he’s ever imagined, before. It feels more than just a dream. He can feel the dull burn as Crowley slides another knuckle into him. He can feel the wet tip of the demon’s cock, dragging against his thigh. It is so much. It feels so real. There has to be more than just one angel’s imagination, surely?

“Fuck.”

“Mm?”

“Can we-?”

“Yes. Please.”

The dream devolves from there. They might manage to imagine sliding their bodies together, but Aziraphale cannot be sure. The details are lost in a headlong rush towards climax.

Hands scrabble as legs are pushed back. Kisses turn desperate and hungry. Skin slides across sheets as they grind against one another - each movement tipping them closer. And Crowley has a filthy mouth. He has such a filthy mouth. And the angel is about to pull back and tell him so, but he's cut off short, because the timbre of his friend's moans suddenly change. 

Crowley is pressing closer against his side, each thrust ending in a high pitched whine. His hand is vicelike on the angel's hip. And then he’s coming against him, muscles strained tight, lips parted in soft, red oval. And Aziraphale’s brain shorts out.

He wakes up in bed, panting and coated in sweat, hand already sliding under his waistband. He’s barely wrapped his fingers around himself before he’s spasming undone - climaxing, hot and wet, inside the pyjamas he hasn’t managed to pull down. His toes are curled. His back is arched. He doesn't think he's ever come this hard, before. He can’t catch his breath.

He falls back against his pillows, ten glorious seconds later, heart pounding and breaths racing in his throat. Crowley’s moans are still ringing in his ears.

.

Roughly a mile away, in Mayfair, the demon wakes up face-down in bed, sticking to the sheets.

“Ugh-,” he peels his sweaty chest away, nudging the blankets aside to look down at his definitely more-than-sweaty belly. “Fucking… fuck.” There is a truly horrific amount of semen sticking him to the bed. A disgusting amount. “What the bloody Hell is wrong with you?” He grumbles - half at his cock, half at Whomever had designed a system that could ejaculate during sleep. “Can’t even enjoy a nice dream…” he slides a hand down, tentatively rubbing a thumb over himself and causing his body to jerk and shiver.

Fuck.

It had been a very nice dream. It had felt incredibly real. Incredibly tactile. And soft, too. Crowley had said some things that he’s pretty sure he’d never say, in reality. Disgusting, soppy things. Things he has always been very careful to hide. Even from himself.

Aziraphale would die to know the depths of his depravity, he thinks, snapping his fingers and rolling over in his newly clean bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he deliberates for a moment over what it says about himself, to replay the whole embarrassing thing out, in his mind. Then, the aching in his body wins out and he slides a hand back down, between his legs.

_Might as well…_

.

It does not even vaguely occur to him (or to the angel) that this might have been the first time they have both slept and dreamt about one another, at the same time, in six thousand years. It does not occur to them that creatures who can move between corporations, and share emotional states, might be able to share dreams as well.

Due to their natural propensity towards denial, the pair of them quickly put the dream from their minds. It is not until about seventeen years later, a few months after the world has not ended - when the pair of them are sharing a few choice fantasies in their newly shared bed - that the subject is raised.

Crowley nearly dies, spontaneously and dramatically, on the spot.

Aziraphale regards him for a moment, cheeks rather pink, then matter of factly asks if he would like to replicate the experience in a more corporeal realm.

The demon agrees, of course. The angel always gets exactly what he wants.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


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